Life is make believe, fantasy given form

Tag Archives: art

A beautiful wistful poem I saved for months to share today.
Comments are closed, please click through and Enjoy.

Shaded Memories of Moonlight

by J.C Watkins Peace

Do you remember the room? I do,
Sitcoms would titter on the old television,
the three of us on my old springy bed,
only one of us was paying attention,
I had thoughts of you instead.
In these shaded memories of moonlight,
your skin was warm and soft,
paying no mind to the comedy,
as life’s tragic drama unfolded before me.
Our hands would touch and
separate; almost like they were dancing,
entities other than our own,
flirting for us, deliberately glancing.

Do you remember the house? I do,
big and old and cheap, but real.
An unused living room as we’d live,
we’d live our lives in bedrooms,
only leaving to corner one another,
in that kitchen with the broken window.
In these shaded memories of moonlight,
the dance would continue, to and fro,…

Empty

Sable and bristle brushes
clattered into the waste
between crinkled tubes of paint
gone her linseed and turpentine
she surrendered her easel to anger
and snapped her palette
in oily hues of cerulean blue
ochre and umber.

With room to spare
she stuffed the black bag
with false smiles and laughter
a whore’s fawning
over gallery Johns in tuxes
of mars and titanium
she discarded
the remnants of hope.

She left the bag at the corner
for dawn’s trash man
in a twilight of cadmium yellow
and alizarin crimson
her bitter heart she held close
bleeding against her chest
and doused the muse with spirits
watched sitcoms like an automaton
in ultramarine blue
she dreamt she was drowning.

In the watercolor morning
she ran breathless to the corner
her life collected and recycled
she rifled through her junk drawer
for her child’s dried up colors
a frayed synthetic brush
and on a whitewashed canvas
she sketched out her emptiness
and painted her soul full.

**

Special thanks to Sue Vincent for the beautiful photo prompt. Consider joining in!

The holidays come to a hectic close and my favorite time of year ambles in. Here is Oregon, if you gaze out the window at the January weather, you’ll find a misty, drippy, icy, foggy-soggy mess, at least through May. That gives me five whole months of lighter obligations and a complete lack of guilt for not “enjoying the weather.” In a climate boasting only three months of sunshine, the Vitamin D police are checking every household for us slackers.

For quite a few creative sorts, our pursuits get back-burnered by other more pressing responsibilities – jobs, violin lessons, soccer practice, staining the deck, grocery shopping, sorting socks…it’s amazing that anything in the world ever gets painted, composed, sculpted, or tapped out on the keyboard.

We, who aren’t independently wealthy or already famous, squeeze precious moments for inspiration from the cracks of our crowded lives. We hide in our cubbyholes, our converted attics, our bedrooms and garages. (Oh, I’ve written in the bathroom too). We rise before dawn with a steamy cup of coffee, kiss our lovers goodnight and stay up with the stars. A weekend alone isn’t a time for melancholy wishes; it’s a little taste of heaven with a neglected muse.

Creative time is sacred time, hours marked with inky conviction on the calendar that can’t be erased. As artists, we need to cultivate a belief in the importance of what we do, even when other duties jostle for our attention. We need to believe in the intrinsic value of our art, even when no paycheck arrives in the mail. We need to honor our creative calling and spirit of inspiration, even when the doubters tell us how nice it is we have a hobby to fill our free time!

In Oregon, the winter weather comes bearing the creative gift of unassigned hours. No matter where you live, dedicate a few empty squares of your calendar to nourish your creative soul and save the dates as you would for your child’s wedding. Be resolved.

My brother and I just spent a few days touring our parents through senior housing. At one point, he leaned in, and whispered, “Growing old is tough.” I agreed, though “tough” is probably too mild a word, the reality deserving something more visceral, definitely more chilling. As my parent’s generation enters what I would generalize as “old age,” they’re struggling with what seems an endless list of losses—family, friends, careers, driver’s licenses, vision, independence, stamina, health, dreams, and the myths about who they are.

I mention myths because so much of who we are is perception, our firmly-gripped beliefs about ourselves. One of the more painful losses, from my observations, is the loss of a sense of identity. Who are we when we’re no longer recognizable to ourselves, when the myths of our lives no longer apply?

Even on the upward arc of life, there are losses, many painful, some liberating, and most irreversible. Through loss, we gain maturity, a broader perspective, and deeper wisdom about life. If we are blessed, we parse the enduring from the ephemeral, the meaningful from the inconsequential, and end our days as a sojourner with an appreciation for the profound gift of this one delicate life.

As more losses loom in the nearing future of my life, I take stock of the person I am and peer into the future for a vision of the person I will become. Will loss peel away my identity? Will I mourn the fading myth of myself?

Not a chance. In that future, I will revel in my art … my writing.

I remember the day I realized that writing could sustain me beyond the exuberance of youth into the foreign frontier of old age. It was a marvelously glorious day when I understood my myth wouldn’t go flat or seize up on the highway of life. I can write until I’m old and silver-haired, wrinkled and whiskered, complaining of warts and aching bones. I can write until I’m shrunken and bent, sagging and frizzy, home-bound and bed-bound. A lovely image, isn’t it?

Yes, I declare.

True beauty dwells in the soul. Imagination isn’t bound by age. The creative spirit that breathes life into art never grows old. As long as I can write, I will be me.